What is Repentance?

Ever make a wrong turn in disobedience to your GPS? If so, you've heard it declare, in a way that in my mind always make it feel like the computer is mildly annoyed: “Recalculating.”

You missed the turn. You took the wrong exit. Now a calm, slightly disappointed voice tells you that you messed up, and it has to re-do all it's "calculating."

The GPS does not lecture you about how you need to pay closer attention. It never expresses its annoyance. You feel it, probably, because you're projecting your own annoyance at the fact you missed the turn, or that the little map confused you briefly.

The GPS isn't asking for your apology. It doesn't expect you to show any remorse. It doesn't really "want" anything, because it's not human. But it's programmed in that moment to tell you what you need to hear: to go a different way, to take a different road/path.

I think that's a fairly helpful analogy for what the Scripture means when it uses the word "repentance."

Though, admittedly, there's more heart in the call to "repent" than there is in a computerized voice.

We still project our own anxiety, our own frustration with ourselves, on that voice. Even if it isn't really there. Even if its patience is impressively persistent.

We tend to think repentance is a feeling, maybe some kind of deep pang in our chest coming from guilt or shame. Sometimes, we think of "repentance" as something else, like saying "oops" after spilling our coffee. At other times, we think of it like an apology. The word "sorry" muttered out of obligation, an admission we did wrong, with an expectation that our apology will be accepted, and that will be that.

None of these, though, was what John the Baptist cried out in the wilderness when he preached: "The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near; repent, and believe in the good news" (Mark 1:15).

 

The Meaning of the Word

The Greek word usually translated as “repent” is metanoia. It comes from meta, meaning “after” or “beyond,” and nous, meaning “mind.”

Literally, it is a change of mind, an “after-thought." You saw things one way. Your way of seeing things was a bit askew. Now, look at things differently. Because once you think differently, you can act differently. You can live differently. There's actually very little "emotion" in the word. It does not describe a feeling. Metanoia has to do with our perception, and a decision to alter that perception.

Greek actually has a different word for mere regret, or sorrow. That is the word used of Judas after the betrayal: metamelomai.

The first part of the word is the same. Meta, as "after," or "beyond," a change. But it's not a change of mind (nous) but of melomai, which means to "care" or to have "concern." You might say it's literally an "after care," or a change of his care, his feeling. He felt terrible. He gave the money back.

But he did not turn toward the One he had wounded. Regret is not repentance.

Contrast Judas with Peter.

Peter also betrayed Jesus, and he also felt horrible about it. That's clear, because when Jesus' gaze met his across the courtyard, we're told that Peter wept bitterly.

But his story didn't end with a feeling, a pang of conscience. It didn't end in metamelomai.

We all know how Jesus had predicted Peter's betrayal at the Last Supper. There's another important verse here, though, that most people aren't quite as familiar with. Jesus doesn't leave Peter with a mere prediction of his betrayal, but also of his restoration: "But I have prayed for you, Simon, that your faith may not fail. And when you have turned back, strengthen your brothers" (Luke 22:32).

Interestingly, the Greek word Luke uses for "turned back" isn't metanoia, but epistrephō, which means to literally turn around or reverse direction.

Judas merely felt bad; Peter actually turned his feet back toward Christ.

And if we really dig deep into how the Old Testament concept of "repentance" gets translated into Greek, we see some really interesting overlap here, a connection between what Greek calls metanoia and also epistrephō.

That physical, directional pivot in epistrephō is significant.

Part of our modern confusion about the meaning of "repentance" comes from our English translations. In English, we often translate the Old Testament Hebrew word shuv (to return or turn back) as "repent." However, more often, when the Septuagint renders shuv into Greek, it uses epistrephō.

So we open our English bibles. We see in our Old testament the word "repent," and then we see it again in the New Testament. But we're using one word, really, for two concepts that are rendered differently out of Hebrew, into Greek, and then get jumbled up in English.

Because most English translations translate the New Testament Greek word metanoia (to change the mind) as "repent."

We use one English word for two distinct Biblical ideas, which leaves us with a kind of "flattened" idea about "repentance" that usually carries the meaning of neither concept.

The ancient Jewish scholars who translated the Old Testament into Greek (the Septuagint) were more aware of this distinction, and they were precise in the way they translated it.

Because shuv is in Hebrew something a lot more akin to what your GPS means when it says "recalculating." It's a physical, directional turn. When they translated shuv into Greek, they almost always translated it as epistrephō. When they needed a word for the internal shift of the heart and mind—the Hebrew word nacham (to relent or change the mind)—they used metanoia.

But often these words were coupled together in the Old Testament. You can see this beautifully in Joel, where he insists on both the turning/the re-orienting of one's life and the change of mind. "Return [shuv / epistrephō] to the Lord your God," he writes, for God is gracious and merciful and "relents [nacham / metanoia] over disaster" (Joel 2:13).

Granted, in that verse, the first "return" is in the form of a command to Israel, the second "the change of mind" is personified of the Lord. But it's quite interesting that, in Hebrew poetry, these words are used in what's called parallelism. A link, here, established between our "turn" of direction, and the metanoia that in that verse is attributed to God.

In the very next verse, though, Joel stacks them together again—this time attributing both to God Himself: "Who knows whether he will not turn [shuv / epistrephō] and relent [nacham / metanoia]..." (Joel 2:14).

This attribution often trips people up. When we read in English that "God repents" or "relents," it scrambles our brains. We think, God doesn't sin, so why would He need to repent?

The confusion happens because we project our own cheap, guilt-ridden emotional baggage onto the word "repent." Then, systematic theologians write treatises about the personificaiton of God's "repentance" or how God can change his mind, etc.

A part of the confusion, though, is that while there is a kind of "personification" of God, here, the bulk of what makes these verses difficult is that we assume repentance means sitting in the corner feeling terrible about ourselves.

But what if we reversed it?

What if, instead of projecting our flawed, emotional idea of repentance onto God, we let God's action define repentance for us?

When God experiences nacham or metanoia, there is no neurosis, certainty no self-loathing or groveling.

There is simply a pure, decisive re-orientation of the Divine mind toward the sinner. God is unchanging, we don't need to get our theology mixed up here. But God chooses to act in judgment and mercy in response to the orientation of the human heart.

What Joel gives us is a sovereign pivot from judgment to mercy, an action taken in response to a new orientation of the human being.

If that is what repentance looks like in the divine nature, then our own repentance isn't about wallowing in shame. It is about participating in a divine attribute. It is the brilliant clarity of seeing reality anew, re-orienting our relationship in response to the happenings around us, and changing course.

Notice that weeping is there, too, in Joel. There's nothing wrong with weeping. Judas wasn't wrong to feel bad about what he'd done. But weeping alone is not repentance.

The point is the movement, the re-direction: return to me.

Isaiah makes the connection to the mind explicit: ”let the wicked forsake their way, and the unrighteous their thoughts; let them return to the LORD, that he may have mercy on them, and to our God, for he will abundantly pardon” (Isaiah 55:7).

Forsake their way, yes, but also their thoughts. The "change of mind" isn't like changing one's mind about whether one's favorite food is tacos or pizza, or if his favorite color is red or blue. It's a re-orientation of the entire person toward a bigger-picture of reality.

It's a re-orientation of the human mind toward the divine mind. And more than the mind, a real turn, a change in orientation of one's entire life.

Sin does not begin with our actions. Actions follow our thoughts. Sin takes root in the mind; how we think about God, about ourselves, about what will make us happy.

The mind wakes up to the fuller truth, to reality, not one's narrow-sighted self-centered, existence, and in response, the entire person pivots. Our feet move us the other way, Godward.

Years later, Peter, having experienced himself the fullness of "repentance" after his thrice denial, and his restoration by Christ later, put all of this together.

Peter stood up in the temple portico on Pentecost and preached this total transformation. He commanded the crowd using both Greek words side-by-side: “Repent therefore [metanoeō—change your mind], and turn back [epistrephō—change your direction], that your sins may be blotted out” (Acts 3:19).

 

How Aquinas Got it Right

Now, all those insights above, aren't uniquely mine. I arrived at this through exegesis. But I've learned through the years that any time I think I have an original idea in the realm of theology, there's probably either someone a whole lot smarter than me who saw it first... or I'm just wrong.

In this instance, it seems, it was the "smarter person" who got it before me situation.

St. Thomas Aquinas devoted a lengthy section of the Summa Theologiae to penance, and one of his insights cuts right against our modern habit of equating repentance with "bad feelings."

For Aquinas, sorrow over sin becomes a virtue only when it is governed by reason and chosen by the will. When a penitent grieves over sin he does so because he knows it's an offense against God. Not just because he's embarrassed over his behavior, was exposed as a fraud, or was caught in the midst of a sin he'd though he could get away with.

In other words, real repentance is sensible. It's intelligent. It understands what has gone wrong, it understands whom it has wounded, and it decides to change course.

A feeling can wash over you; it does not lead to change unless the feeling moves the heart to the degree that the mind and will is also impacted. When we repent, therefore, a real decision is made.

But this isn't a source of pride. Like, "look at me, I'm so smart to see my sin and change things."

Aquinas insists that this turning does not begin with us. He teaches that the first movement of penance is God’s own action upon the heart, drawing it back, and only then do faith, fear, hope, and love follow in their order.

This is why the New Testament often speaks of repentance as a gift from God. If repentance were merely working up enough sorrow, it would an achievement of a kind.

Then, if you're anxious or prone to scruples, you'd have to wonder: did I feel badly enough?

But if repentance is a response to a God, a participating in a divine attribute (remember what we discerned from Joel), then the sorrow is not the end of it. Sorrow is not the point. That leads us down the path of Judas. Repentance that's given, that's a real participation in God, ends not in despair, but it leads us home.

Paul parsed this out a long time before I did: ”For godly grief produces a repentance that leads to salvation and brings no regret, but worldly grief produces death” (2 Corinthians 7:10).

Worldly grief circles around the self: my failure, my shame, my ruined image. Godly grief looks at God is drawn into His heart.

 

Coming to Ourselves

There's another picture we see in the Gospels that illustrates repentance well, though it doesn't use any of the words we've discussed above.

It comes from Jesus, in what is probably his most famous parable: that of the Prodigal Son.

After the prodigal is brought to naught in the far country, Jesus tells us his change comes in a fascinating turn of phrase: "...when he came to himself" (Luke 15:17).

That is metanoia. Nothing had changed around him. He was still hungry, still filthy, still far from home. But something changed in his mind. He remembered who his father was. He remembered who he was. And that remembering led to a change a direction, a pivot of his feet back toward home.

The Desert Fathers—early Christian monks who retreated from the corrupt world and formed communities in the Egyptian desert—frequently used this phrase, of "coming to himself," when describing repentance.

For them, the “far country” of the parable was something more akin to a state of spiritual amnesia. They taught that sin is fundamentally a form of madness, a delusion in which we lose our grip on reality.

To “come to yourself” is to wake up from that delusion.

There is a famous story in the Sayings of the Desert Fathers that perfectly captures this. A zealous monk from Egypt went to visit an elderly monk who had come from Rome. The Egyptian expected to find the Roman practicing severe, punishing fasts. Instead, he found the Roman elder eating a modest portion of vegetables and drinking a little wine to accommodate his physical weakness.

The Egyptian was secretly scandalized, judging the elder as spiritually lazy.

Sensing this, the Roman elder confronted him. "Before you became a monk," he asked, "what was your life like?"

The Egyptian admitted he had been a poor herdsman, sleeping on the ground and rarely having enough to eat.

The Roman elder replied, "Before I came to the desert, I was a wealthy nobleman in Rome. I lived in palaces and ate the finest foods. Now, I have given all that up for this tiny cell. You have actually improved your standard of living by coming here, while I have embraced poverty."

The text records what happened next: “Hearing this, the Egyptian came to himself”.

He suddenly saw reality. He realized he had been nursing pride over a fasting discipline that was, for him, just a continuation of his former life, all while judging a man who had sacrificed immense worldly comfort for the love of God.

His "coming to himself" was the collapse of his false superiority. It was pure metanoia—his perception changed, and because he saw differently, his heart changed.

Some of the wisest saints who write on prayer always speak extensively about repentance. That's because, anyone who has attempted to pray deeply at all, recognizes that prayer and repentance go hand-in-hand. In silence before God, the lies we have been believing lose their grip. We see that the thing we grasped at was not going to satisfy us, that the resentment we nursed was poisoning us. Paul’s exhortation names the process: "Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your minds" (Romans 12:2).

Repentance is the renewing of the mind. It is a gift. And it requires our honest, openness, a willingness to move our eyes off of the things that deceive us, away from our limited me-centered perspective. It is the opposite of the me-centered despair that we sometimes "call" repentance, the Judas kind, the kind that focuses on one's inner sadness, guilt, or shame, and stays there.

 

A Few Practices to Consider

How might we truly live repentant lives? If that idea sounds strange, you're probably still holding onto an idea about "repentance" that's modeled after bad feelings, after Judas. If our entire lives, though, are meant to be re-oriented toward God, then repentance is a patten of life itself.

So, here are a few thoughts. A few things to notice and put into practice.

First, when you notice a sin, don't stop at “sorry.” Don't retreat into "woe is me." Don't let your feelings suppress your intellect. These two need to work together in the moment. So ask yourself: What was I believing in that moment? That I needed to win the argument? That God would not provide? That I had to be noticed?

Name the lie. The thought that was "oriented" wrongly, toward the self. Identify the wrong path, and perhaps, think: "recalculating." You don't have a little app/GPS to do it for you, you have something better. A mind given you by God that can "recalculate" its proper course. Repentance begins there.

Second, replace the lie with the truth. If you're going the wrong direction, and you make a second "wrong turn" and don't get back on route, the GPS will just keep telling you it's "recalculating" until you do. The Scripture, the teaching of the Church, the wisdom of the saints, even that of fellow believers who might see your path more clearly than you do, can help you get back on the right path. It's not only important to recognize the wrong path, we need to see the road home clearly, too.

Third, make the first turn. Sometimes, to get back on course, we need to make a few turns. That's okay. It starts by making the first turn toward the proper route. The GPS doesn't tell you to pull over, beat your head against the window, and cry. It gives you the next right turn. In real life, it means say what you should have said, the truth over the lie. There might still be a few more turns you need to make to get things right, but that's where it starts. Maybe it means returning the money. Closing the tab on your browser or deleting the app. I cannot figure that out for you, but every "recalculation" of the spiritual life begins with a single turn.

Finally, remember that mercy prevails. Return, the prophet says, for he will abundantly pardon. Repentance that ends in self-loathing has not finished its work. It finishes when the prodigal is back in his Father's arms. And guess what? The Father is already running.

 

God Bless,

Judah